


Lost Then Found

by Ally1001



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Eventual Fluff, F/M, Getting to Know Each Other, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Reader is a Mechanic, Reader-Insert, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, eventual healthy dose of, get ready for me to make stuff up about space AND engineering, who's gonna stop me, will probably spice it up later so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27681121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ally1001/pseuds/Ally1001
Summary: Your life on Coruscant is tedious and unimpressive, and you're dying to get the hell off the planet. When a mysterious bounty hunter and his wrinkly green kid show up, you find the opportunity to do just that.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You, The Mandalorian/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 79





	1. the meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been over three years since I last actively wrote fanfiction so please enjoy whatever this is. I haven't been able to stop thinking about the Mandalorian in days. send help.

Coruscant was a hellhole.

Having been stuck on the abysmal ecumenopolis for almost _two entire years_ , you were more than qualified to deem it as such. Seedy marketplaces, gangsters and pirates _everywhere_ , corruption like you had never imagined. If you knew what awaited you, you never would have taken the offer to work in maintenance at the city’s once spectacular Spaceport. Sure, the pay was fine, and yeah the variety of ships that landed for repairs was enough to make your mouth water, but the crime and cost of living were atrocious, and you barely got to work on anything that came through. 

Your shifts were most often spent behind the parts counter because your rough and easily emasculated coworkers didn’t trust you to do your job. The extra carburetors, cooling valves, and various system bypass mods that you peddled, away from the action, didn’t do much in the way of keeping you occupied, nor were they too exciting. Sure, some of the mods you developed weren’t technically legal, but you often wondered if you might speed up the process of escaping this forsaken city if you did deign to move into any of the numerous higher stakes black markets just a minute or two’s walk in any direction.

Truthfully, you were lucky enough to get by without having to move yourself and your meagre belongings any closer to the city’s notorious underworld—but at your most dramatic, you were teetering on the precipice. Most nights you slept at the port anyways, curling up on a cot in the back of the workshop’s storage area so you could finish parts orders or work on problems that the other repair workers missed.

Your life wasn’t anything to brag about. You had come to Coruscant chasing dreams and freedom, something more than the little Outer Rim life you had left behind, and all it had gotten you was a serious reality check and slightly thicker skin. Your bigoted coworkers and the system’s worst customers certainly made sure of that. Today, you figured, would be no different.

“I’m sorry sir, you can’t leave your ship in this bay. We’ve got an air taxi booked here for maintenance in a few and the crew is finally letting me—hey!” You bristle as the human and Trandoshan keep walking, hydraulics hissing as the ramp of their YT-2400 shuts. Smugglers by the look of it, based on their gear and the fearful number of blasters strapped to their persons. The former turns to you and presses some credit chips into your waving palm.

“Can you take a look at the nav-comp? We had some issues with the hyperspace controls. I’ll pay the rest when we’re back. Thanks.” He winks, ignoring another stuttered request to move the freighter, and pays you no further mind as he sweeps off with his yellowish-green companion, arms stretching out as if to welcome back the midnight city.

“Entitled kriffing…” you trail off. If he hadn’t just handed over twice the full cost of the job needed (re-wiring the control panel would surely suffice), you would call some of the repair droids over to tow the speeder to a different bay…but you need the credits, especially if the smugglers were to return with more. The young and dangerous tend to pay the highest, you’ve observed over your time here, and you would feel worse about accepting such a significant overcharge if they had even attempted to consult with you about a price. But they hadn’t, so what's fair is fair. 

You look to the other night-shift mechanics, all focused on a serious patch job for an aging silver gunship, and decide that this is a good enough opportunity as any to fix up the ship on your own.

Thick repair gloves and safety goggles donned, after forty minutes on the control panel in the cockpit, you find yourself on a roller seat underneath the ship to fix up a couple of loose wires. One of them sparks and you tut, squinting as you patch and readjust it to fit where it’s supposed to. You’re just about done when a gurgle sounds a short distance behind you.

You let your head fall back to touch the admittedly filthy metal floor ( _when was the last time someone cleaned around here?_ ), tilting back far enough to find two big, dark eyes blinking back. A little green hand pokes out from underneath a tiny brown wool coat, making grabby hands in your direction. 

“Hello there, little one,” you greet, rolling back gently so as not to spook him, “Where did you come from?” 

You fumble upright when you’re out from under the freighter, kneeling down to be more level with the little creature. He giggles when you hold out a finger to him and grabs your knuckle with three curious little fingers. 

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” You shake his hand up and down. He comes closer to you, tugging on your pant leg and babbling.

“Is—Is your mom or dad around?” You scan your surroundings, not spotting anyone who might fit the bill. “Let’s find them, little one.”

You’re ready to set off with him to search, but are distracted from your task by a scuffle from the other end of the hangar. “I-I’m sure we can make a deal, Mando! Huh? Name your price! We’ll pay you twice whatever that greedy—ouch, watch it!” It was the pair of smugglers from earlier, being pushed past some cargo crates, both of them bound by the wrists. They’re led by a helmed bounty hunter towards the battered gunship still being tinkered on by the rest of the repair crew.

You’ve never seen a Mandalorian before, you realize. His armor is polished and imposing, shining next to the floodlights around the bay. He doesn’t respond to their offers, continuing to move them towards the open ramp to his ship. When your fellow maintenance workers see him, they all rush away; if Coruscant was good for anything, it was teaching you when to call it a day in the face of danger. If things went south, this wouldn’t be the first time blaster fire had been heard in this area of the port alone.

The kid points towards the bounty hunter excitedly, bouncing off a short distance before stopping to look back at you. “ _M-Mleh?_ ” 

“You’re with _him_?” Your eyes widen. Standing, you brush the dust off your knees and take a step forward. “Okay, let’s go see what’s happening, kiddo.”

You follow the little green child to where the Mandalorian stands, leading the smugglers up to the interior of the ship.

“’Scuse me, I think…uh, I—is he yours?” You gesture to the kid, swathed in his little robes, now gripping the top of one of your boots to peer in at your ankle.

The Mandalorian deposits his bounty to sulk in the entryway for a moment before turning back to face you.

“Oh.” His voice sounds out, clear, but filtered through his helmet. He nods and walks back down to pick the kid up, glaring at him (or so you presume). “You were supposed to stay on the Crest. How many times do I have to tell you?”

As the child mumbles back in gibberish, you take time to analyze the bounty hunter. He’s tall— taller than you, at least, and broad. He’s intimidating and certainly looks dangerous, but the wrinkly little green thing he’s currently chastising mitigates what would otherwise be a deadly aura. 

“I apologize if he distracted you from your work.” The Mandalorian snaps your attention back up to him. “How much do I owe for the repairs?”

“No, don’t worry. He’s sweet. Uh,” you scramble for your datapad, looking through the manifests for the night. You locate the charge for his ship. _The Razor Crest._ “Looks like…250 credits for the landing gear, and 125 for the tune-up? Let’s just call it 250, though. To be honest, I don’t think the guys really fixed anything of substance to warrant that high a price.”

“Hm.” He looks down at you, sharp moulding on his helmet reflecting the city lights shining in from the open hangar doors. The deep grooves are where his cheekbones might be. You wonder what expression he’s wearing behind that visor. Mandalorians are human, right? “Right. Thank you.”

He signs off on the charge after you readjust it, your body buzzing as he steps closer to you to do so. Before he walks back up the ramp to set off, you speak up, just loud enough to hear over the hum of welding in a nearby bay. “Can I ask a question?”

You take his pause and lack of an answer as a yes.

“What did they do?”

“Pissed off the wrong people.” His voice modulator gives nothing else away. He looks over his shoulder, the kid peeping past his arm to smile at you.

You smile back and chance another. “How did you find them?”

“I’ve been tracking them. Gang ties in the lower levels. Figured they’d show up sometime this week.” 

“Oh. Where are you taking them?” 

“That’s three questions. Corellia. Why?” His question was barely a question, and you could tell that he was getting impatient.

“Well, um- I—that’s their ship,” you gesture to the bay you had walked over from, newly repaired freighter gleaming, “so…I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with it? If you’re leaving with them?”

“Did they pay you already?” He glances back to where the smugglers sit, bickering with each other on the floor of one of the ship’s cargo holds. You can see a wall of blasters sticking out just a few feet away from them.

You don’t even consider lying. “Y-Yeah, they gave me enough to cover the job when they dropped it off. Uh, nav-comp troubles.” 

“Ok. Keep it, I guess. They don’t need it anymore.”

Now, that draws their attention back to you.

“Hey, no! That’s on loan from our boss, we still have to—if we lose it, we’re— _ah!_ ” The Mandalorian presses a button on his left wrist, zapping the human’s restraints and earning a glare from the Trandoshan.

“Forget it, we’ve got bigger problems to worry about.” The latter’s sharp teeth glint as he rasps the words out.

“O- _kay_ ,” you draw it out, “Um. I’ll figure it out. Thanks.”

The Mandalorian takes one last look back at you, slightly too long for your comfort, before moving the rest of the way back up to his ship. You hold back a shudder. The intensity that rolls off his armor is overwhelming. Some people are just born for the job, huh?

He presses another button on his wrist, and the boarding ramp begins to close.

“Safe travels, goodbye little one!” You wave uncertainly as they are slowly shrouded from your view. The kid coos and raises an arm. The bounty hunter doesn’t wave back, but he doesn’t break eye contact—you think—until the ramp is fully raised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! chapter two to come soon!


	2. the return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to say thank you to everyone reading for your interest! It's been so long since I've written a series and I totally forgot how challenging it is to like. Create cohesive storylines. Lmao. There is no god, only Wookiepedia.

Just under two weeks pass before the Razor Crest finds its way back to your hangar.

It’s unexpected. You had accepted the fact you’d never see it or its pilot again—there’s a big galaxy out there and even if the Mandalorian _did_ come to back to Coruscant, there was no guarantee that you’d run into him and the kid. The heavily traversed Spaceport was probably the last place a bounty hunter would want to lay low.

So, when you walk out from the back to meet a cargo delivery and notice the gunship you’ve been thinking about for the last twelve days docked behind a rusty starfighter, your heart nearly stops. 

You lose a few precious moments staring at it. Sitting at the very end of the repair bay, almost unassuming, it doesn’t look any worse for wear than it had when you had last seen it jet off. You fight the urge to approach, taking note that no one seems to be working on it and the main power controls are shut off.

_Control yourself,_ you reprimand, shaking your head in an attempt to think of anything but the shine of beskar panels on strong shoulders. The way the bounty hunter’s worn leather gloves had crinkled when he paid for his repairs, leaning that tiny bit closer to accept the electronic charge. You could have forgotten your own name right then and there. 

The stranger had been an almost constant thought in the back of your mind since you met. Where was he going after Corellia?

The very night he departed you had searched for any information your datapad was willing to give you on Mandalorians. You hadn’t slept at all that night, anxiety and biting curiosity getting the better of you.

With night fast approaching and neon lights shining in from the city, you try to mentally organize the rest of your work. The hangar is incredibly busy, all available bays occupied and the whole maintenance crew working hard to get through each job as quickly as possible. Even _you_ had been assigned a shield upgrade earlier rather than your usual seat behind the counter.

Tearing your gaze away from the gunship and cementing yourself back in the present, you meet the delivery droid to thank it and open the crates it sets down from an anti-grav dolly. Ion thrusters don’t unpack themselves.

* * *

Five deliveries later, you’re half ready to run out the massive docking bay door and never look back. Your back _aches,_ the strain of towing and storing so many massive parts orders on your own taking its toll. Sleeping on a sorry excuse for a cot in your cramped quarters probably doesn’t help your case, either.

But now, as a thank you from the universe for putting up with its shit, you can rest. It’s very late—or, perhaps, very early—and only a skeleton crew remains in the hangar for any urgent jobs that might come through. You poke your head out the door to the storage room you crash in most nights, just taking one last glimpse of the familiar gunship. Or two.

_Still there._

You wonder if it’ll be gone in the morning. You wonder why it’s even back in the first place. You wonder if you’ll catch a glimpse of the bounty hunter again.

You untie your hair, now in disarray after a long day, and get ready for the sleep of the millennium. 

The very moment you lie down is, of course, when someone decides to start a blasterfight. 

Violence in the hangar isn’t new—not with the varied clientele you see on Coruscant. If it was any other day, you’d be tempted to ignore the commotion. But this time, knowing that the Razor Crest is _right outside_ and it could be _him,_ you spring into action the second that unmistakeable first round rings out. Pulling your coveralls back over your shoulders and hobbling over to the door, you nearly fall flat on your face as you haphazardly tug your boots back on.

You hesitate when you get there and carefully peer out. Six gangsters march toward the mechanics unfortunate enough to be on-shift, blasters ready.

“I’m telling you; we don’t know what ship you’re talking about.” Your Duros co-worker Cidel raises their teal hands, pleading.

Your stomach drops. You think you know exactly what they’re looking for.

The YT-2400 left by the Mandalorian’s last bounty had been relegated to the furthest corner of maintenance. You hadn’t known what to do with it after it had come into your possession, and you certainly hadn’t explained its presence to anyone you worked with. No one had even asked about it, likely not realizing it had never been picked up. _Sometimes,_ customers just didn’t come back. Your plan was to wait a month or two before you scrapped it for parts, _just in case,_ until which time it would stay under a tarp.

“Lies!” You’re brought back to the present. Agitated, one of the gangsters shoots a warning blast dangerously close to Cidel’s head. The beam rebounds off a sturdy crate behind them up to the ceiling. “The tracking beacon led us _here._ There’s almost half a million credits worth of spice on that freighter, so you had better give it up before I lose my patience.”

The man is intimidating. He’s only a bit taller than you and unassuming enough with his greying brown hair and dark circles under his eyes, but the high-tech weaponry he’s got strapped to his back and vest scream threat.

“Really, w-we haven’t seen any YTs in weeks, I…” Cidel trails off when the apparent leader of the thugs’ attention flits to you, still half-hidden behind the storage room door.

“You look like you might know what we’re looking for.” He zeroes in. The deliberate tread of his heavy black shoes on metal flooring echoes through the silent hangar as he gets closer. “I’m about out of chances to give here.”

Stepping out into full view, you gesture meekly to where the ship lies dormant. “It’s, uh, it’s over there. We haven’t touched it, didn’t even _know_ —it was left here a few weeks ago by a couple of smugglers, I swear—”

“Good to see one of you has some sense!” The man laughs, his mirth jarring in the tense room. He claps a hand down on your shoulder hard enough to hurt. With his other hand he gestures his crew over to where you pointed. You look to Cidel and the two workers behind them, all obviously confused—alright, so they _had_ forgotten about the abandoned freighter.

The armed gangsters rip off the tarp from the ship, inputting the control for the boarding ramp and entering to collect their cargo. You wring your hands together.

A few long moments pass before you’re pulled closer to the YT, the scoundrel’s rough fingers too tight around your shoulder. Only Cidel scrambles to follow, the other two mechanics staring after you uncertainly. Heartwarming.

The hand on you disappears only to be replaced with a blaster to your back.

“Stay a minute while we make sure the cargo is all accounted for…for your sake, I hope there’s nothing missing.” He laughs again and presses his weapon up into your collar. “I do apologize we’re so late to pick up, we only just received news of our associates’ capture—news travels slow sometimes.”

You stay silent. You can only assume that they’ll find all of what they’re looking for onboard, but who knows if the smugglers who docked it in the first place had left the entire amount they promised.

You try not to panic and scan your immediate area for a weapon. The only thing that could work is a cordless welding gun balancing on the flat head of an R5-series droid. It’s certainly not what you were hoping for, but you can make do. While the man holding you hostage barks orders to his cohorts you chance a reach, fingers finding purchase on its handle.

Subtly bringing the tool to your side, you try to keep it out of view. Your mind races with thoughts of where to aim to incapacitate the man long enough to get away. _Throat? Eyes? No, that’s a little gory. Tone it down._

Your quick thinking turns out to be for naught as help arrives in the form of a silver and brown blur dropping down from a tall stack of crates.

The Mandalorian.

He aims his weapon in your direction and fires.

“Who—” You flinch when the blaster at your back hits the floor with a clatter as a plasma beam hits your captor square in the chest and sends him flying back with a yelp. You feel the heat of the blast as it passes you, too close for comfort.

The thugs are quick to clamber back out after hearing the shot, but the Mandalorian is quicker. The first down the ramp shouts back to his friends onboard to call for backup before a grappling line shoots out from the bounty hunter’s vambrace, toppling the criminal backwards and rendering him useless as he wheezes to catch his breath. The next two leap out only to be stunned by a few well-calculated quick punches. The only shot that does meet armor simply bounces off with a _ping._

Your beskar-clad aide strides up into the freighter, unbothered, to meet the two remaining spice runners. It doesn’t even seem like he’s broken a sweat. You pick up the blaster at your feet and feel its weight uncertainly, figuring out whether or not you’re going to get the hell out of there or try to help— _not that he needs it._

You steel your nerves.

_Go,_ you mouth to Cidel, waving them toward the exit. You lift your hand to your ear. _Call somebody?_

They look back uncertainly before taking off. There hasn’t been a police force in Coruscant since the war, but you’re sure they’ll figure something out.

As you step closer to the freighter there comes a final shout from inside. You peer upwards into the ship’s cargo bay warily, greeted within seconds by the Mandalorian, holstering his blaster as he walks down the loading ramp.

He stops, opaque visor focused on you expectantly. If he notices your firm clutch on your welding gun ( _you had been bracing yourself to run in there, after all_ ) or how shaky your hold on the blaster in your other hand is ( _he does_ ), he doesn’t mention it.

You swallow. “H-Hi. Again. Thanks?”

He waves in the direction of his ship. “We’ve got to go.”

* * *

“Where do you want me to drop you?” The Mandalorian asks. Sitting tight in the cockpit of the Razor Crest, the crackle of his voice modulator startles you after the many minutes of silence that had passed since you had flown out from the maintenance bay. The kid sits in the seat adjacent to yours, little green fingers occupied with a metal ball he seems to have stolen from the control panel.

You pause to think. That hangar had been your home.

Technically you did rent an apartment, but in your time on the planet you really only went there every couple of weeks to do your laundry. In broad daylight only. Your sketchy neighbours creeped you out, and getting stuck with such late shifts usually made for a pretty undesirable walk home. After about a month on Coruscant, you had figured that it was both safer and easier to stay at the hangar. No one else really ever went into the storage room, and you essentially had a private bathroom as the only female mechanic on your crew. If you missed rent, your landlord would just wait a few days before clearing out your cheap kitchen table, sofa, and mattress, and renting to someone else.

“Well?” He asks again. Not annoyed. _Curious?_

“I kind of lived at the Spaceport? In storage. I mean, I had— _have_ —a place, but the port was, um. Safe. Or, I thought it was.”

“…Ah.” You can tell he wasn’t expecting that. “I…I can bring you back in a few weeks if you want. Better to lay low for now.”

“Don’t bother. Kriffing landlord’s waiting to evict me anyway. I’d rather be…anywhere else. Honestly, I’ve been trying to get off Coruscant for a while now.”

The three of you sit for a moment in the quiet hum of the ship as the bounty hunter pilots through moonlit clouds.

“What stopped you?” You’re surprised that he asks. He’s not incredibly talkative from what you can tell, nor has he turned to look at you once since entering the ship.

“Well, credits, to start—” You’re interrupted when the child babbles at you, raising his prized silver knob as if to show it off. His gummy smile shows off a few tiny teeth. “But also, jobs, I guess. I didn’t want to just _leave_ without having something else set up.”

He hums in acknowledgement, a low sound in his throat. You won’t forget it.

You remember your burning question from that afternoon—you never found out why he had come back in the first place.

“Did you have…a target? In the city?” You remember a carbonite freezing chamber in the entry bay from when you boarded but there hadn’t appeared to be anyone loaded inside, and you hadn’t seen anyone else other than the kid. “Why were you back at the ’port?”

“Last bounty mentioned that they still had some lucrative cargo on their ship. Would have come sooner, but we ran into a few delays on the way. Figured if the shipment was still with you, it was only a matter of time before someone else came after it, so we went to track them down.”

“You came back to get the spice?”

“No.” He hesitates, looking for the right words. You think this might be the longest conversation he’s had in a while. “Their boss is a spice runner in the upper levels. Tried to track her and her goons down first, but she’s off-world—came back to make sure that I didn’t get you in trouble by leaving the ship.”

“Oh.” You feel your ears flush and look away from the back of his head. “Thanks. You didn’t have to.”

“I did.” He ruins the moment by pulling up drastically, increasing speed for a straight shot out of the atmosphere. “Buckle in.”

As the world outside the transparisteel canopy darkens, your hands rush for the straps behind you before you can be thrown from your chair.

The bounty hunter presses some buttons and you’re pushed back in the jump to hyperspace, the mild G-force absolutely soul-crushing to your unaccustomed body. You didn’t get out much. 

When your nausea passes and the Razor Crest is under the cover of streaking stars, the child clambers over to your leg and raises his arms. You reach down uncertainly to lift him up to your lap.

His little head droops as he clutches onto your sleeve. You can still feel the ghost of the blaster beam that had zipped past your shoulder earlier if you think about it hard enough.

“This guy could’ve shot me back there, you know.” You coo. The child drools, about twenty seconds from sleep, certainly not an active participant in this discussion.

“I don’t miss.” The Mandalorian’s tone is indecipherable, but you think it more fun to read as indignant.

“Sure.” You nod at the baby struggling to keep his eyes open. “I could’ve _died._ ”

“You probably _would_ have died if I hadn’t come back. Underworld thugs usually prefer to leave no witnesses.” The Mandalorian finally turns his head to his left shoulder, halfway to glancing back at you. “Wouldn’t be surprised if they blew that place sky-high within the next few hours.”

“You underestimate my skill with a welding gun.” You grumble, blinking deadpan at the side of his helmet.

That elicits a short huff—a laugh. The modulated crackle reverberates through the cockpit.

You feel it straight in your chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around!


	3. the escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting so long for the next instalment of this story folks! December was a Certified Mess and between work, grad apps, and the pandemic ravaging the globe, things got a little behind. Also, writer's block. I wanted to make this chapter a little longer, but I think this ends at a pretty natural point, so the stuff I wanted to get to initially will be included in the coming chapters. I hope you like it!

You don’t have much luck in conversation with the stoic bounty hunter. He’s secretive. You’re _sure_ he doesn’t trust you yet, in spite of whatever motivated him to come to your aid at the hangar. Also, wariness aside, you think he just enjoys the quiet.

He’s about as forthcoming as a brick wall, but you do manage to heave out the basics over the first excruciating day of travel. One, he’s been tasked with reuniting the child with his kind, and two, he has a lead on a crew on Eriadu who might be able to help. He doesn’t answer when you ask for the kid’s name, nor will he tell you how he’s come into the little green thing’s guardianship, and he pointedly ignores you when you ask how long the trip will take. His lack of response at that latter question gives you the feeling that it’s going to be at least a few days.

_Eriadu._ Your brow furrows. It’s familiar, but you can’t place it. You don’t press him for more answers.

After an uncomfortable sleep in the co-pilot’s chair and a seriously sore neck, you’ve resigned yourself to odd jobs around the Crest. 

Earlier, you had asked the Mandalorian— _Mando is fine,_ he had said matter-of-factly a few hours after you boarded (much to your surprise)—where he kept his tools and had ventured off to resolve the many blaring repair notices you’d been staring at on the control board in front of him.

The most trouble you have is with the interior wiring on the cooling panels that cap the ship. You curse his miserable little toolbox; Coruscant be damned, at least the spaceport had more tech than you could ever _wish_ for. His paltry little selection is laughable in comparison, but you make do. You thank the stars that the bounty hunter doesn’t drop from hyperspace while you make your first repair, precariously balanced on a pile of boxes and netting that you scrounged up to reach the ceiling after an unsuccessful hunt for a ladder. Breaking an arm would probably just make things more awkward.

After that, you tweak the output on the generator as much as you can without frying the system mid-flight, fix some lighting issues on the lower deck, and fumble around rewiring the door to the cockpit. Mando does his best to ignore that particular intrusion as he taps away at a keypad, but the kid watches curiously as you try not to electrocute yourself.

Just after you squeeze yourself behind the ship’s water filtration tank to take a look at its valve outputs, the man himself makes an appearance. He clears his throat as he sets a small plate down on a nearby crate. 

“Here. You’ve been at it for hours.” Your stomach grumbles when you see the mealbread and broth he’s brought with him, and you maneuver out of the tight space to accept his offering. The baby waves a piece of bread around, perched on a box of spare ammo at your left.

“Thank you.” You mean it, taking a grateful sip of hot soup and savouring the warmth that travels down to your stomach. The meal reminds you of canteen food from your childhood—plain and inexpensive, but it hits the spot. You’re no stranger to a simple meal, and you’re starving.

“Sure.” Is all you get in response. The Mandalorian’s helmet is aimed at the child, who chomps away.

“Have you eaten?” you ask after a few moments in the quiet.

He turns just enough to face you, “I will.”

You nod and avert your eyes, trying hard not to shrink under his prolonged gaze as you lean further back onto the wall behind you. He can’t take off his helmet in front of you and he hasn’t eaten since you boarded—why does he deign to stay and watch while you eat?

The kid sets his bowl down on the floor with a clack, breaking the Mandalorian’s stare. You take another sip and watch the man chastise his ward for eating so messily, stooping down to wipe some crumbs off his fluffy brown collar. 

Sitting here, it’s easy to forget how strange your situation is. How unsure you are of where you stand on the ship. How _dangerous_ the man in front of you has proven himself to be (he had taken out those smugglers so _fast_ back on Coruscant) when he’s here giving you food and trying to parent.

You barely notice when his attention falls back to you.

“We’re running a little low on rations. It’s Outer Rim, so we should make a stop before Eriadu. You probably need some…things…too.”

“Yeah, I could go for some things.” You only have the clothes on your back, your datapad, and a welding gun that’s now safely stored away on the upper deck. A toothbrush, at the very least, would be a start. “Where do you want to go?”

“Couple of bigger settlements on Thyferra. I’ll make the drop and head there first.”

You’ve never heard of Thyferra but know it’s probably still somewhere in the Inner Rim judging from the amount of time you’ve been travelling. He goes to the ladder, presumably to input your new course, but pauses first.

“You don’t have to do this. Ship’s fine.” You wish it was easier to read his tone.

“Take it from an expert—the fact that this thing is flying right now is a miracle. They don’t even make most of the replacement parts she’d need, so I’m going to have to do some serious rejigging once we land. Can’t expect me to sit with you all day,” you joke, trying to break the serious atmosphere that’s settled over the room.

He sighs and sets a boot down on the first rung.

_Tough crowd._

“Wait,” you call out before he can head up, “I, uh, I really don’t mind. This is the least I can do.”

He looks back over at you. He nods, an infinitesimal approval, before climbing the rest of the way.

* * *

A while later, the Razor Crest lands on the most humid planet you’ve ever had the displeasure of visiting.

“Kriff,” you complain, fanning yourself in the suffocating heat, “why _here?_ Are you not dying right now? I’m sweating.” 

Dense green rainforest surrounds you on all sides; it’s a wonder he had even found a clearing to land in amongst the lush growth overhead. You’ve only been outside for a few minutes as he leads the way to civilization, but hair is already curling against the nape of your neck. 

“Thyferra’s ex-Imperial. Local governments are still reorganizing and there isn’t a big New Republic presence yet, which means no clearance checks. It’s good for a short stop.” He doesn’t look back, but the baby stretches to blink at the surroundings from over the cover of his pram.

“Reorganizing? After what?”

“Almost all of the bacta in the galaxy grows here. There was a pretty big war over it a couple years ago, Rogues knocked out the Imps monopolizing everything. Been a little shaky since.”

You hum in acknowledgement. He must be in a good mood—this is the most he’s spoken in hours. Up ahead where the trees begin to thin out, a town comes into view.

“What is this place called?” Rough pavement turns to stone as you approach the gate separating forest from settlement. The buildings here are surprisingly tall, mostly tan brick and worn metal edging. Faded blue and green canopies stretch out over a large main square, sunlight filtering in patches over an assortment of vendors and shops. The heat is still stifling, but you’re distracted from your discomfort momentarily by the new colours and sounds.

“Xucphra City.” Mando doesn’t fumble on the syllables the way you do when you mouth it back to yourself. 

If the Mandalorian notices the people staring at him and the three visible weapons he has on his person, he doesn’t seem to care. Maybe he’s used to it at this point; people of his creed were a rare sight these days. He leads you and the kid to a large, covered corridor and gestures to the storefronts. Metal signs spell out shop names in Aurebesh over most of the doors, some windows shining with neon displays too.

“Do you have credits?” His hand almost flits to the compartment on his belt where he keeps his own. Almost.

“Yeah, I do.” You pat the zippered pockets of your coveralls rhythmically, to make sure, but you trust that nothing had happened to the reasonable amount of credit chips you normally kept on your person. _Just in case._

He gives you an inquisitive tilt of the head before turning around and heading towards the produce stalls, “Meet back here when you’re done.” 

“Roger that. Sir. Captain. Are you a captain?” You don’t expect a reaction and you certainly don’t get one. Rather than scoff, he simply walks on, the baby zipping along behind him.

The shops are simple, but clean. You find a new jacket and some basics before hurrying to the general store on the other side of the square for toiletries, and a pack of Dantooinian chocolates to hide away in your new knapsack. 

The marketplace is still bustling when you exit to find the Mandalorian and the kid. When you don’t spot them immediately you worry that they’ve abandoned you here, dooming you to a life of sweaty bacta farming, but you soon catch a glint of beskar and hurry over to where they wait.

Mando carries a few packages of grains, some freeze-dried meals, and a netted bag filled with a few glass bottles and fruits. The child greets you with an unintelligible squeak, and you reach down to squeeze his outstretched hand.

“Thanks for not ditching me,” you say, earnest, looking at your distorted reflection in Mando’s visor.

“I’m a man of my honour.” His solemn reply isn’t anything unexpected, but you laugh nervously regardless. Is he responsible for you now? Is that in his code? You’re scared to ask.

“We shouldn’t stay here too long. Let’s get back to the ship, we’ll set course after sundown.” Mando scans the crowd. 

“I thought you said it was safe, who could be here?” you ask, trying to follow his shifting gaze. 

“I said it was good for a short stop. There are few safe places left in the universe.” He begins to walk back in the direction of the ship, and you scramble to follow.

You huff. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“We have a lot of enemies.”

“You, I can believe. But this little guy?” You reach down to adjust the cushion in the silver pram. He’s alert, wide eyes taking it all in, damp heat not seeming to smother him the way it does you. “Impossible.”

“You’d be surprised.” He is quiet as you exit the marketplace and step back onto the forested path, the trees doing their work to insulate your conversation. It’s peaceful out here, the sounds of wildlife echoing from all directions and the afternoon sun doing its best to break through the heavy foliage overhead. There are a few small lights strung in the branches above to light the way here and there, but it’s still much darker than in town.

You want to ask what he means, what the two of them have come across, but you’re sure in the few seconds since he last spoke his guard has come back up and strengthened tenfold. Instead, you let a few moments pass before changing the subject, “I’m taking that scrap metal you’ve got in your upper storage. Your thruster nozzles need _full_ reconstruction, and I don’t trust them not to implode before we get to the Outer Rim. I’ll patch them up and we can stop for parts at a bigger station where I can take the time to fully repair them.”

“I don’t think that’s—”

“If you say it’s not necessary, I’m going to stand here and laugh in your face. In front of the kid. Do you want me to embarrass you like that?”

He exhales, a long, drawn out thing, “Fine. Do what you have to. But we’re leaving tonight.”

You babble about the other repairs that the ship needs the entire trek back, how lucky he is that you’re here to do them, just to fill the silence.

* * *

He slinks away the second you return, presumably to escape your absentminded chatter. You set up to tinker away on the back of the ship, where you can almost forget the sweat trailing down your back. You’re in your element here—no high-speed space travel, no crowded markets, just you and the machine. It’s familiar. Part of you almost yearns for your usual days spent ripping apart old starfighters, transports, and yachts. You don’t necessarily want to go back to the port, but you miss the comfort of routine.

For now, though, hanging headfirst over the tail end of the Razor Crest to hammer away at sheet metal is about as close to comfort as you’re going to get.

When you’re finished, you clamber off the roof, the clangs your footsteps make likely alerting your companions that the ship is ready to go. The sun is setting, making you figure you had better hurry before the Mandalorian changes his mind and takes off without you.

Tools safely stowed away, you change into fresh clothes and grab your backpack before stepping back out into the slightly more bearable evening air where the bounty hunter and the kid prepare a small meal at a campfire. Mando gestures to a plate of grilled fruit that you recognize from the bags he had held on the return from the city.

“Go ahead.”

“Thanks.” You take a few pieces, leaving more than enough for him for when he eventually decides to eat. You wonder when and how he does find the time for his own meals—he would have had to inhale his broth after providing you and the kid with your shares earlier, and he hadn’t taken any notable breaks while you’d sat with him early on in your trip. Certainly, he hasn’t starved this _whole_ time.

You go to stand, “I’m good, if you want to go eat, or I can go inside?”

His head flickers to you, illuminated by the crackling fire, “I’ll go.”

He grabs the food you left and strides to the lowered ramp of the Crest, disappearing inside.

You finish your serving quickly and clean up the scraps from dinner before remembering what’s in your bag.

“I almost forgot,” you tell the kid as you pull out the chocolate you’d bought in town, “I got us dessert.”

His little green face appears at your side seconds after hearing the crinkle of the wrapper.

You reach to lift him up onto a crate so he can sit comfortably, and hand him a small piece to try. He swallows it whole and cracks a toothy grin.

“Do you like it? This is my favourite kind.”

He reaches out as if to ask for another.

“Only one more. Otherwise you'll be up all night.” You oblige him, taking out another.

“What’s that?” Mando’s voice almost has you jumping out of your skin, but you do your best to contain your fright. He’s only a few steps away, packing up his cooking gear.

“ _Kriff,_ Mando, don’t sneak up on people like that.” One hand over your heart, you hold the bag out towards him. “You ate fast. It’s chocolate, do you want one?” 

His visor, of course, gives no indication of an expression, but you feel embarrassed. _Offering food to the man who doesn’t eat in front of you. Smart._

Somewhere beyond the reaches of your overthinking brain, he responds, “Sure.”

You snap out of it.

He opens his glove and you place one of the sweets into his awaiting palm. You stutter on, “It’s—um, it’s from Dantooine. I used to eat them when I was a kid.” 

The bounty hunter pulls his helmet outward for a moment. It still covers his whole head, but leaves enough room to slide his index finger and thumb up past your view. None of his skin is visible, but you look away to be polite.

Mando shrugs, “It’s pretty good.”

“High praise.” More relaxed, you smile and take another piece for yourself. The three of you sit for a moment enjoying a few more moments of the crackling fire. 

You’re unsettled when you realize the fire is the only thing you can hear.

The sounds of the wildlife in the rainforest, shrieking and chittering the entire walk back, had almost completely disappeared. You look to him. He senses that something is off, too, head aimed past you to the trees.

“Is someone there?” Your question is quiet, barely a whisper. He raises a hand discreetly, fingers only a few centimetres lifted off from his knee— _hush._

The world almost stops when three blaster shots crack through the air next to you, missing the Mandalorian by a hair. You manage to grab the kid and duck before more fire hits, stomach leaping into your throat.

Mando shoots back in the direction of your attacker, ever composed, but there’s no indication that he’s hit a mark. 

“We have to leave. Get inside and set course.” he demands, listing off coordinates for you to input.

You lift the little bundle of green and brown and do as he says. Blaster fire explodes from behind as you run inside, praying not to get hit. You don’t dare turn back to see how many he’s facing off against.

You strap the kid into his seat as quickly as humanly possible before launching yourself to the control panel to get the coordinates started. It’s not hard, but you curse the bounty hunter for not having a droid to do the work for him in these dire circumstances. 

Mando shouts your name from downstairs, a warning. You hear booming shouts, distant but getting closer, as he boards. 

“I’m _trying_ —things would be quicker if you had a kriffing _astromech!”_ You’re a minute away from having the coordinates ready, but every second counts.

“Get us in the air!” You freeze at his muffled demand. 

You’re no pilot. Sure, you know the ins and outs of most starfighters like the back of your hand, but flying is a different beast. You _can_ fly, in theory, but you always lacked the coordination to be any good, and you _hate_ the danger of it. There are too many things at risk, too many buttons to press or levers to pull that could end in disaster.

“I— _me?”_ The stutter escapes your lips before you can think twice— _who else?_ You don’t know what you were expecting. You try to remind yourself that you’re being impossible, to shake off the dread gripping your entire body, but your mouth moves faster than your mind. “This is your ship, I can’t, I—”

_“Now!”_ He cuts you off. There's no time for this. 

More blasterfire clashes on the lower level, the hits undoubtedly frying some control panel or another. You can picture Mando down there, shooting from cover as you try desperately to build up the will to do what he says. How many attackers is he facing? There can’t only be one—there are too many rounds sounding off, and you don’t think he’d be so frazzled if there were only a few.

You take one breath. Another. You pull up.

The ship lurches into motion and sends your head smacking into the headrest behind you. You try to steer upwards gradually, but the angle is off, and you shoot off diagonally over the trees. You’re holding on for dear life trying to right the ship before you finally hear the hiss of the hydraulic loading ramp closing, muffling the shots still blazing past the transparisteel panel in front of you.

“Shields! Shields…ah,” you mutter to yourself, feeling like a disgrace when it takes you a frantic three seconds to punch the shield generator, narrowly blocking a critical hit to the front blasters.

Mando finally appears behind you. You breathe an audible sigh of relief when he silently flips a switch above your head and the ship swings into a straight path forward.

“A-Auto-nav…right.” You stutter, feeling stupid at your disorientation. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine. What the hell happened back there?” Mando presses, a looming force over your shoulder as he leans down to drop new coordinates into the system. Your heart falters, partly because of his proximity and partly because, frankly, he’s pretty damn intimidating.

“I’m sorry,” You stand up and slide into the open seat on his left. Your hands fly up to cover your face as you groan. “I hate flying.”

“You know more about this thing than I do. You don’t fly?”

“Not if I can help it. Always terrified me,” you mumble, looking down at your hands which cling so tightly to the seatbelt that your knuckles ache. He reaches over towards the panel next to you to type something else in, making adjustments.

“Who were they?” You chance, trying to dispel your nausea.

“Smugglers. A lot of them. Didn’t recognize anyone.” He places a hand on the hyperspace drive. “We’re making the jump.”

The bounty hunter doesn’t say anything for a while after entering hyperspace. You worry that you’ve made him angry because of what your delay could have caused; what if you hadn’t gotten off the ground fast enough and he’d been hit? What if one of them had shot some vulnerable part of the ship before you got the shields up? You should say something—that you’re sorry—but it’s hard to speak up. You can feel him covertly taking in every uncomfortable grasp of your fingers at your pantlegs, and the frown on your face as you try to get the words out.

“Mando?” Still tense, your voice shakes. “I’m sorry. I should have…I shouldn’t have gotten so stressed. I could’ve gotten one of you hurt—”

“I—don’t apologize.” He catches himself on the verge of something else. Empathy.

_‘I know what it’s like to be frozen by fear,’_ is what some long-repressed part of him wants to say, _‘I know it was hard.’_

He continues with something less giving. “You got us out. That’s all that matters.”

_‘I’ve been there.’_

Your head bobs in a meek acceptance of his affirmation.

“Day or two to the next stop,” he offers, “Kinyen. Agriworld. We’ll lose their trail in the system. Get some rest.”

You try, but it takes hours to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for making it this far! Anticipate Chapter 4 soon. I hope you liked it, I'm looking forward to exploring the softer parts of Mando and his character! Look forward to Eriadu (not next chapter, but soon!)--that's where we find out more about the reader's past and how they ended up on Coruscant in the first place.
> 
> If you get a chance, please let me know how you're liking things in the comments!


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